Inevitable
by TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot
Summary: No one ever accused him of being an angel.
1. Overture

**I was in a reflective mood when I wrote this piece. **

**If you enjoy it, please for the love of all that is good in the world take yourself off to read 'the Celestial Bodies' suite by Mapleleaf Cameo (and indeed anything else she has written.) This wouldn't exist without her inspiration.**

**Constructive critisism is most welcome!**

* * *

As the earth spins, day slips languidly into night and back into day once more.

The forces of light and dark in the world are always at play.

The cycle continues.


	2. Dark

**Dark.**

No one ever accused him of being an angel.

In the depths of the night he scorned sentiment whilst chasing down men and women who simmered with emotion until it boiled over and consumed their every waking thought, their every need and desire.

Crime was greed and possession. Crime was lust that could not be contained in an everyday life. Crime was raw and furious and bled from the darkest secrets of the soul, infecting everything it touched and damning a world full of sinners.

Crime was never boring.

No one else could see the violent currents that underpinned their insignificant lives full of meetings and acquaintances and petty squabbles. They were so self involved, blind to the waves until they were crashing down around them, threatening to sweep them away into an ocean of despair and leave only bones.

No one understood the relentless chase into the heart of the storm.

No one but him.

This man didn't just see the world, he observed it, and every deep, dangerous wish of every dirty heart it fell prey to. He observed it and became an agent of never-ending chaos because this man wasn't out for money or revenge or one of the millions of inferior reasons for giving in to one's baser instincts.

No.

This man had too much emotion.

It was so powerful it cracked his polished image and seeped through until his features were contorted with a white-hot frenzy of emotion, personifying the full magnitude of a force the common criminal could only dream of. This man was a potent image of what he could have become if he dared to look into his heart and discover what awaited him there.

But he was powerful too, in his own way. He saw. He observed. He _knew_.

Their intoxicating waltz was spinning faster and faster towards its conclusion and he knew that there was only one ending on the horizon. Their mutual destruction. It was inevitable.

Moriarty was darkness.

Moriarty was the night.

Moriarty was lust and greed and fury and crime and sin and he was the only person that had ever truly understood the great Sherlock Holmes.

Only one source of light could save him.


	3. Light

**Light.**

There was no such thing as angels.

There were nights when the darkness permeated his being, fusing with his every atom until his sense of self was obliterated. The masses were outside his doorstep, crying 'help me, heal me, guide me, save me' as the storm struck, but not one of them crossed the threshold.

They called it boredom, unaware of the force that threatened every moment to drown everything they held dear in their small lives. There was no word in the English language- indeed, any language- for that which was beyond comprehension. What was in a name, after all?

On nights like these, the boredom could be suicidal.

No one understood the self-destructive habits he persisted in were a vaccine. They were a little taste of chaos as he teetered at the brink of annihilation, the darkness closing in around him and obscuring his vision as he waited for the end of all things.

No one could see how adrift he was at times like this.

No one but him.

This man didn't see the darkness coursing through the world. He observed it mirrored in eyes like a tempest, windows into the deadly anguish that was enveloping his companion and dragging him down into its depths. He observed it and approached without fear because this man's loyalty and compassion knew no bounds.

Yes.

This man was his saviour.

He was so powerful he threw dazzling light into every corner of a darkened mind, banishing shadows of doubt and distress in an instant. This man, the very image of unremarkable to the unobservant, made his heart ache with feelings neglected over such a long time.

But he didn't deserve everything this brave man was. He saw. He observed. He _knew_.

Their exhilarating dance was building in intensity but there was a storm on the horizon, foretelling of mutual devastation. Was it inevitable?

John was radiant.

John was the day.

John was goodness and trust and loyalty and he was the closest thing to an angel in the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes.

He would do anything to keep his light burning.


End file.
